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Updated: May 12, 2025
Marcadee was a stout Brabançon, With conscience weak and muscles strong, Who roamed about from clime to clime, The side of virtue or yet of crime Ready to take in a regular way For any leader and regular pay; Who trusted steel, and thought it odd To fear the Devil or honor God.
Now, relenting, late repenting, Richard turns to Marcadee, Saying, "Haste, before I waver, bring the captive youth to me." He is brought, his feet in fetters, heavy shackles on his hands, And, with eye unflinching, gazing on the king, erect he stands. He is gazing not in anger, not for insult, not for show; But his soul, before its leaving, Richard's very soul would know.
Let me live in proud chivalry's story, Or die with my lance in its rest! The plaudits followed him loud and free As he tossed the lute to Marcadee, Who caught it featly, bowing low, And said, "My liege, I may not know To improvise; but I'll give a song, The song of our camp, we've known it long. It suits not well this tinkle and thrum, But needs to be heard with a rattling drum. Ho, there!
He cries, in anguish, "Let him live. He has reason; never treason more became a traitor bold. Youth, forgive as I forgive thee! Give him freedom, give him gold. Marcadee, be sure, obey me; 'tis the last, the dying hest Of a monarch who is sinking, sinking fast, oh, not to rest!
The story is dull: by way of relief, I make a digression, very brief, And leave the "ins" to swallow their beef, The "outs" their mortification. Many there were in Richard's train More known to fame and of higher degree, But none that suited his fickle vein So well as Blondel and Marcadee.
So Richard was left in a shabby way To Marcadee, with an abbot to pray And pother with "consolation," Reminding 'twas never too late to search For mercy, and hinting that Mother Church Was never known to leave in the lurch A king with a fat donation.
He stretched his lines in a circle round, And pitched his tent on a rising ground For general supervision Of both the hostile camps, while he Could join with Blondel in minstrel glee, Or drink, or dice with Marcadee, And they consume provision. To starve a garrison day by day You may not think a chivalrous way To take a fortification.
Thus, tilting here and jilting there, He fought a foe or he fooled a fair, But little recking how; So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain, He might have made a capital Cain, Or a splendid dandy now. In short, if you looked o'er land and sea, From London to the Niger, You certainly must have said with me, If Richard was lion, Marcadee Might well have been the tiger. A month went by.
He came With a flag of truce, commissioned to say The garrison now were willing to lay The keys of the castle at his feet, If he'd let them go and let them eat: They'd done their best; could do no more Than humbly wait the fortune of war And Richard's word. It came in tones That grated harshly: "D n the bones And double-six! Marcadee, you've won.
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